Unforgettable: The Complete Series (A Sexy Cinderella Standalone Love Story)

by Nelle L'Amour

  Halfway into it, I hear a car pull into my driveway. I spring up from the couch and peek out the window. Who the hell is that? My front door unlocks.

  Chapter 5

  Zoey

  “Freeze!” Brandon barks. “What are you doing here?”

  Jeez. He’s in a good mood. Just kidding. I’ve been away for almost three weeks, and this is how he treats me? Okay. I didn’t expect him to run over to me in movie-time slow-mo and hug me, but I expected a little warmth. Something along the lines of “Hi. I’m so glad to see you.” Wishful thinking. Once an asshole. Always an asshole. Though a damn gorgeous one.

  I stop dead in my tracks and soak him in. He looks fresh out of a shower. Just the way he did the first time I met him. His damp inky hair is perfectly uncombed, and a thick towel is wrapped around his toned torso, hanging sexily low on his hips. How could anyone look so ridiculously gorgeous after spending so much time in a hospital? Alright, he’s pale and a little thinner, but the weight loss only accentuates the definition of his lean, finely honed muscles. My breath hitches in my throat as my eyes travel from his devastating face to his broad chiseled chest, past his rippled abs and that perfect pelvic V, and then down his long, muscular legs to his perfectly formed bare toes. Every sculpted feature and limb sends a rush of tingles to my core. He’s still the epitome of pure masculine perfection. My legs turn to jelly. I’m not prepared for the panty-melting impact he has on me. I maintain a poker face, not letting him know how much he affects me. I’ve become a master of my emotions and reactions.

  His long-lashed violet eyes laser into me. “Answer my question or I’ll call the police.”

  His harsh, unexpected words sober me. Did he lose his mind in the hospital? Sustain some kind of head injury? I mean, he’s always been mental, but this is insane. My eyes meet his fiery gaze.

  “Hel-lo-O. It’s me. Zoey Hart. Your assistant. Remember?”

  Cocking his head, he looks at me confoundedly. “Huh?”

  “You know. Your go-to girl. Go-To-Zo.” Maybe he doesn’t recognize me because I’ve lost a little weight. On second thought, fat chance.

  “How did you get past the gate?”

  “Do I look like the type who would jump it?” My sarcasm is lost on him. “Duh! I have the security code.”

  His dense brows furrow. “How long have you been working for me?”

  He’s got to be kidding. Maybe he’s just putting me on. “To be exact, two years, two months, and two days.” Over two insufferable years.

  His eyes blink pensively. “Really?” The word is infused with doubt and surprise.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Kinda. I guess you know I had an accident.”

  “Yeah.” The horrific memory flashes into my head. To be honest, I haven’t stopped reliving it. The bloodshed…his touch…the sirens…my words. For the second time in my life, death stared me in the face. A chill passes through me.

  “Why didn’t you come visit me at the hospital?” His tone sharpens.

  “Believe me, I wanted to.” Oh, God did I. More than you’ll ever know. “But your lovely manager Scott forced me to take a paid vacation for as long as you were there. He told me that if I didn’t obey his orders, he had the authority to fire me. I didn’t want to lose my job.” Or you. “So I did as he asked.”

  Digesting my words, Brandon tugs at his lower lip with his thumb. He always does that when he’s thinking. It’s so damn sexy. My cheeks heat. I want to jump out of my skin. Jump him.

  “Where were you?”

  “He sent me to a retreat with no connections to the outside world.”

  Brandon purses his lips. “I see. How did you know I was back home?”

  “From one of the women who checked in this morning. That’s all she could talk about. Your release was all over the news and Internet. As soon as I found out, I packed my bag and checked out.” I pause. “Oh, and by the way, I called Scott from my car and told him I was coming back.”

  Brandon’s jaw tightens. “Did he tell you I have amnesia?”

  What? My eyes widen and my blood pounds in my ear. I blurt out an angry “no.” I’m so pissed Scott didn’t tell me I could kill him, but then again, I shouldn’t be so startled. The man despises me, and let me tell you, it’s mutual. Slimeball! Well, at least, that explains my boss’s strange behavior. I wonder if he’s forgotten what an asshole he is. That would be refreshing.

  His voice cuts into my deviant thoughts. He apologizes for threatening to have me arrested and then asks me to join him for a drink in the kitchen to catch up. It’s not an invitation but rather an order. The amnesia has clearly not changed his bossy personality. Being his employee, I give in to his request but tell him I can’t stay long. I have a lot of catching up of my own to do. Including responding to the zillion tweets he got from fans while he was in the hospital. At the kitchen island, I sit cattycorner to him, drinking a bottled water, while he nurses a Scotch. My eyes stay on him. God, he’s gorgeous! I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten that.

  “So refresh my memory, Zoey, and tell me, what exactly do you do for me?”

  Ha! What exactly don’t I do for him would be a more apropos question. Let’s see…where should I start? After a big gulp of the water, I begin.

  “I maintain your daily schedule, your Facebook fan page, and respond to your tweets, which, by the way, exceeded five million from fans around the world while you were in the hospital.”

  “Wow.” He actually seems quite surprised. “What else do you handle?”

  I spit out the rest of the list. “I get your Starbucks coffee every morning, make your travel and restaurant reservations, prepare your lunch, send out your two hundred pairs of jeans for laundering and take care of your dry-cleaning, stock your refrigerator, order your supplies, coordinate things with your entourage, and even help you with your lines. Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. I give you massages. I’m a certified massage therapist. That’s one of the reasons you hired me.”

  His eyes dart to my hands, lingering on them. His eyes flutter as if he’s trying to remember them. And then he twists his luscious lips.

  “How did you end up working for me?”

  “I got the job through an agency that specializes in placing personal assistants with celebrities and VIPs.”

  “What’s it like to work for me?”

  The words tumble out of my mouth. “You’re a conceited, egotistical, arrogant asshole.”

  His brows jump to his forehead. “Hmm. If I’m a total jerk, why do you work for me?”

  The truth. Well, almost. “I need a job, and you pay me decently, plus you give me room and board along with a car allowance. It sure as hell beats being holed up in a dark, claustrophobic massage room.” I add in one other reason. “And despite what you may be thinking, I actually really like my job.” And could look at you all day long.

  He studies me. I can feel his eyes raking over my body.

  “How old are you?”

  I think that question is banned by some equal opportunity employment act, but I tell him anyway. “Twenty-four.”

  “Have I ever fucked you?”

  What? That out-of-the-blue question takes me aback. Every muscle in my plus-size body tenses while my ovaries do a somersault. I somehow manage not to fall off my stool and find my voice.

  “Your cock is the one thing I don’t handle.” I rebound nicely. “Unless you count all the times I’ve booked a hotel room for you and your hook-ups.” And dreamed about it.

  My eyes flick to the bulge between his legs and then quickly return to his pensive face. I feel myself flush and my awareness only heightens the sensation.

  “Do I share my social life with you?”

  “Uh…no. I just know what I read online and in gossip magazines.”

  A short silence and then he breaks it after a chug of his drink. “Do you know my fiancée, Katrina Moore?”

  At her name, my blood curdles and my chest clenches. I gulp my bottled water and swallow it over t
he rising lump in my throat.

  “I’ve met her a couple times,” I stammer. Two times too many. The second encounter flashes into my mind—at the hospital after Brandon came out of surgery. The bitch was with Scott and she told me three was a crowd. Especially with a heifer like me. Her insult stung me, and if the tears from Brandon’s life-or-death condition weren’t enough, I shed another round and fled. In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t. It was just too much.

  Brandon’s voice hurls me out of the painful memory. “What do you think of her?”

  Mama always told me if you have nothing nice to say don’t say it all. But growing up with my uncle and his family, I learned to speak my mind. So, this is hard. I take a deep breath. “She’s okay.” Fucking stuck up bitch. I hate her guts! “I guess I owe you a congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Brandon’s voice is distant. He polishes off his Scotch, and I take a last sip of the water. A blue feeling washes over me.

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to settle back into my quarters. I’ll have your Starbucks for you first thing in the morning—right after your swim.”

  “I like to swim in the morning?”

  “You never miss a day.”

  “That’s good to know. Can I help you with your bags?”

  Well, that’s a first. It’s just a simple roller bag that’s in the trunk of my car, so I politely decline.

  Brandon’s eyes stay on me as I hop off the stool. “Good night, Zoey. I hope you can help me piece together the last ten years of my life.”

  Silently, I pray and hope they include me.

  Chapter 6

  Zoey

  It’s good to be back home. Three weeks at that new age spa was unbearable. It was closer to being in prison. Cell phone and computer usage was banned, and even if you managed to sneak some time with your devices, there was no cellular or Internet access. I bunked in a small room no bigger than a jail cell, and there was no air conditioning in the hundred-degree desert heat. And I’m the kind of person who’s always hot to begin with. I almost died doing hot yoga. I couldn’t even cool off in the pool since I’m not a swimmer. And don’t get me started on the food. The food Nazis forced me to do a cleanse. All I ate—or should I say drank—was vile-tasting green juice that looked like Nickelodeon slime. I learned a new four-letter word. KALE. I hate the way it tastes and hope I never see another one of those monster-ugly leaves ever again. Ugh! Cabbage with a bad perm.

  Next to my “spa” accommodations, the furnished guesthouse I reside in is a palace. It sits on the edge of Brandon’s property just off the pool. With a bedroom, living room, and kitchenette, it’s small but functional. Mimicking Brandon’s main residence, the contemporary furniture is high-end Italian stuff—not exactly my taste, which leans toward funky, but I can’t complain since I live here rent-free. Plus, the multiple windows offer a view of the city that so many would kill for. On a clear day, I can see all the way to the ocean. As I stash away my garments, the sky darkens and the timed lights of the city kiss it a gentle goodnight. Twinkling like stars, they never cease to amaze me.

  Just as I unpack my last bra, my cell phone pings. Sure enough. It’s a text from the slave driver. I haven’t been back for more than ten minutes and he’s already bugging me. So much for wishful thinking. Nope. Nothing’s changed. Scrunching my face, I read it.

  I’m hungry. Pick up a burger and fries.

  Fucking great. I was looking forward to curling up in bed and watching some TV before getting some work done, but now I have to run out to service his majesty. And it’s not like I can just go down the hill to close-by McDonald’s. Mr. Taylor is very particular about his burgers—and in fact, just about everything. The only burgers he’ll eat are from In-N-Out, so I have to schlep all the way down Sunset in rush hour traffic to get him what his heart desires. But wait! Maybe he doesn’t remember what he likes and I can go to McDonald’s. I almost give in to temptation but in the end decide weathering his bad temper isn’t worth it.

  If battling the insane traffic is not enough, the drive-thru line at In-N-Out is thirty cars deep. Moving at the speed of a slow freight train, it takes me forty long minutes to get my order, and by the time I get to the pick-up window, I’m famished. I ask for another cheeseburger with everything on it but then change my mind. Thanks to the spa, I’ve lost some weight (the one and only benefit), and I’m determined to keep it off. So instead, I force myself to order a Protein Burger—a measly hamburger that’s wrapped up in a lettuce leaf and not sandwiched between one of those delicious toasted buns. My stomach rumbles. Trying to be thin sucks.

  “What took you so long?” snaps Brandon as I strut into his living room. Now wearing perfectly ripped jeans and a white tee, he’s sitting on the couch fiddling with the remote.

  “Can you show a little appreciation, please?” I snap back at him before handing him the bag with his burger and fries. “I got you a cheeseburger exactly how you like it with ketchup and grilled onions.”

  Without thanking me, he reaches into the bag. I watch his toned biceps flex as he bites into his burger.

  Bite me, asshole.

  With my burger bag in hand, I march off.

  “Where are you going?” he asks before I’ve taken two steps.

  “To my living quarters. If you don’t mind, I’d like to eat my dinner in solitude.” And in peace and quiet.

  He grabs a couple of fries. “That’s not going to work. We need to make this a working meal. I have a lot of catching up to do. Now take a seat.”

  “Are you going to pay me overtime?”

  “Yes.” His voice borders on a growl. “Now, please take a seat.”

  Well, at least he said please. I search for a good place to sit, the farther away from him the better. I head toward a corner chair. His voice stops me in my tracks.

  “No. I want you to sit next to me. There’s a lot to go over.”

  Grrr. Reluctantly, I meander back to the couch and plop down on the leather cushion beside him, curling up in a cross-legged position. He stretches his long legs out on the coffee table in front of us. My knee brushes against his rock-hard thigh and my eyes glimpse the sizeable package between his legs. It’s quite a chunk of meat. My hunger consumes me. I take a bite of my pathetic burger.

  “What exactly do you have in mind?” I ask after swallowing. The Protein Burger isn’t as bad as I thought. It’s pretty juicy.

  “I thought we’d screen some episodes of my show, mainly from this past season.”

  My insides light up. I love Kurt Kussler and could totally binge on it. I’ve been watching the series since the day it premiered. I’ve seen every episode a dozen times and, with my crazy memory, know many of them by heart. When I found out from the job recruiter that I’d be working for the superstar, I practically drove my car off a cliff. I should have. Little did I know at the time what I had in store.

  “Sure,” I say casually, masking my excitement as he presses the remote with one of his long tapered fingers. Just like the rest of him, his hands are beautiful, sculpted works of art. The action-packed opening credit sequence set to the pulsing theme song instantly plays on the built-in big screen TV. A fast-paced montage of memorable clips culled from various episodes, each ending with Kurt in a sexy pose. Kurt Kussler is hot. So scorching hot. My heartbeat speeds up and a heat wave melts my entire being. I feel like the deconstructing Wicked Witch of the West. All hot molten liquid.

  Brandon presses a button on the remote and the opening credits speed up.

  “What are you doing?” I yell.

  “Fast forwarding. We don’t need to waste time.”

  “Stop! I love the opening credits.” I snatch the remote from him and slow down the credits to normal speed just in time to see Kurt do his signature line at the end. Lunging, he aims his big gun straight ahead and says:

  “Get it. Got it? Good.” I say the words with him.

  Brandon gives me an odd look as Kurt pulls the trigger and a loud BOOM! fills the room. I gasp. T
here’s something about Kurt holding that big gun and looking directly into the camera with those fierce violet eyes that makes my heart ricochet out of my chest every time.

  “Are you okay?” asks my companion.

  Is it that obvious I’m totally in love with Kurt Kussler? Just like every woman in the world. “Yes,” I pant out and then chomp into my burger to satisfy my carnal craving.

  “Have some fries,” he orders after I gulp it down. He holds out the bag.

  Without losing eye contact with the TV, I lose my willpower and dig in. God, they’re good. Crispy and lightly salted. Worth every sinful calorie.

  The opening credits segue right into the episode. Holy moly! It’s one of my favorites. The one in which Kurt doesn’t know he’s standing right next to The Locust, Alisha’s killer.

  Every inch of me clenches while my eyes stay glued to the TV. Oh God! The way he swaggers in those tight jeans! Snarls his lush lips! Smolders his violet eyes! Every word that comes out of Kurt’s mouth sets my body on fire. The suspense is killing me. I gasp when the disguised assassin almost runs him off a cliff. Kurt can’t die! And then toward the end, up comes my favorite scene of all—a flashback to Kurt and Alisha’s nuptials. The perfect church wedding, the beautiful, happy couple surrounded by loved ones. My heart pounds madly. I just hope the sound of the TV drowns it out so Brandon doesn’t hear it. I glance at him. He’s into it as much as I am. I can tell by the intense, unblinking expression on his face. I return my attention to the TV. Thanks to my eidetic memory, I know every line.

  The Pastor: “Do you, Kurt Kussler, promise to love and cherish this woman for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”